


counting.

by DictionaryWrites



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Biting, Canon-Typical Violence, Cutting, Drug Use, Extremely Dubious Consent, Guilt, M/M, Marks, Mild Gore, Power Dynamics, Power Imbalance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-22
Updated: 2018-06-22
Packaged: 2019-05-26 17:50:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15006155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DictionaryWrites/pseuds/DictionaryWrites
Summary: The Grandmaster doses Loki with a drug that is distinctly un-erotic - the Grandmaster seems to enjoy Loki's unshakable focus nonetheless.





	counting.

**Author's Note:**

> This one's weird.

“Well, why don’t you– Why don’t you, uh, talk for me, baby?”

“I talk enough,” Loki mutters. Whatever drug the Grandmaster had given him, it narrows his focus and fills him to the brim with frenetic energy, tunneled into a single lens and  _shining_  from him… The Grandmaster is watching him, his lips quirked into a quietly indulgently smile, but Loki is barely cognizant of it. This time, he doesn’t feel the heat of the Grandmaster’s honey-coloured gaze, doesn’t squirm under the Grandmaster’s unwavering attention, and instead focuses on the rug before him.

He weaves with care, drawing one thread between the rest, slowly drawing up a symmetrical pattern. It’s been thousands of years since last Loki sat at a loom, and yet he returns to it with ease and comfort, enjoying the way he can feel the threads under his fingers, enjoying the slow rhythm of the shifting woven threads, settling easily into it.

The rug is some sixteen feet long, thus far, neatly folded beneath the current process. Loki has been weaving for hours.

“Talk to me,” the Grandmaster purrs in Loki’s ear, and Loki clenches his teeth. The Grandmaster laughs at him, his hands on Loki’s hips, and Loki is infuriated at the distraction, at the way he forces Loki to momentarily look away from his weaving, his project, that he  _must_  finish– “And I won’t distract you any more.”

“I’ll fuck you later,” Loki mutters, unable to push the whine out of his voice. “Grandmaster,  _please_ , I’m busy–”

“Why don’t I talk?” the Grandmaster asks softly. His fingers slide slowly over Loki’s sides, and Loki inhales as he loses hold of his weft, then drags it back within his fingers again with a thread of seidr. “Golly, Loki, I didn’t realise you could be so, ha,  _industrious_. Loving the, uh, the concentration. So intense. I’d love to… Aw, honey, I’d just love to have you, uh, just like this. I’d love to… Mmm, yeah, sit back on the, uh, sit back on the bed. Feel you… Kiss me. Sound good?”

“Later.”

“What if I let you– What if I let you fuck me, sweetheart?” It’s like Loki’s concentration is  _shattered_. His hyperfocus isn’t lightened or broadened - instead, it is as if the lens is suddenly shifted to settle on something else, a different project.

Loki turns in the Grandmaster’s arms, his hands on the Elder’s jaw and neck, and he feels his grip tighten, grasping  _strong_  at the bone of the Grandmaster’s chin. He takes in the Grandmaster on a level he never has before, drawing in the lines of his face, the shine of the colour their, even the colour and the way his  _pores_  catch the light…

“You’ve let me before,” Loki says distractedly, shoving the Grandmaster’s robe aside and bearing more of his skin for Loki’s perusal, feeling his eyes rove over the prominent shift of the Grandmaster’s collarbone, of his sternum… Again, it isn’t as usual. Ordinarily, he is distantly aware, he’d be uncertain of being so demanding, of grabbing at the Grandmaster and positioning the Elder as he pleases - the Grandmaster likes any kind of sex, likes to play with different roles, but not from Loki. He likes to ensure Loki is reminded of his place, but the Grandmaster has ground himself down on Loki’s cock, has had Loki shift his shape for his pleasure–

“And, uh, yet,  _honey_ , you turned yourself around at the thought.”

“I want to take you to pieces,” Loki says softly. “I want to… Take your clothes off.” The Grandmaster raises his eyebrows,  _astonished_. Loki takes in the change in his gaze hungrily, takes in the way the Grandmaster’s eyes widen, the way his jaw and lips shift and slacken, the way his head tilts back marginally. 

“Don’t– Don’t tell  _me_ what to do, baby, I–”

“Take your clothes off,” Loki repeats, intently. The Grandmaster takes a slow step back, and then his robes fizzle away onto the air, and Loki shoves him back onto the bed, his gaze shifting over the Grandmaster’s body. Once more, he draws his fingers with fascination over the plane of the Grandmaster’s chest, leaning right in to examine the way the skin shifts, the dusting of hair there, the  _pores_. “I could count them.”

“You, uh, you won’t, though,” the Grandmaster murmurs, and he drags Loki by the hair to kiss him. Loki is irritated by it, irritated by the way that his eyes close reflexively, and he is forced to rely on his distant mouth and unfeeling tongue, the dull heat of the Grandmaster beneath him. “I want you to talk for me, why don’t you… Come on. Tell me what you want.”

“I want to count your pores.”

“Not that, honey, that’s the drugs talking. Tell me how you’d fuck me.”

“Hard.”

“Gee, that– I’m gonna write that down. Pill #34 makes Lo-Lo’s silver tongue turn to  _steel_.” The Grandmaster doesn’t seem displeased, however, and Loki shoves him back, forcing him to lie on the bed, his shoulders against the mattress. “You want… What? Put– Put something in me?”

“I want to kiss this, first,” Loki murmurs, dragging his fingers over the Grandmaster’s thighs - it would be like weaving. A regular rhythm, one way and then the other, methodical, kissing every inch of skin, maybe biting at it, creating an array of marks and patches over the Grandmaster’s chest. “The skin.”

“You like my skin?”

“Love it.” The Grandmaster chuckles. “I like the colour. I like the number of pores.”

“You, uh, mentioned the pores.”

“I like the hair.” Loki slides his palm through the Grandmaster’s chest hair, and the Grandmaster inhales, leaning up… Yes. Loki likes that. Wants him to do it again. He drags his fingernails over the skin, and he shifts the other hand forward, squeezing  _tight_  at the Grandmaster’s cock–

Loki smiles. The Grandmaster gasps, his hips stuttering into the strength of Loki’s grip, and for a moment, just a moment, Loki entertains the idea of truly stripping him to pieces, of separating the Grandmaster into his skin and flesh and bones and organs, and–

“Lo-Lo,” the Grandmaster murmurs, almost scolding. “ _No_.”

“Yes, Grandmaster,” Loki murmurs, ever-obedient. “I can’t… It’s hard not to focus.”

“That’s okay,” the Grandmaster purrs. “Focus… Focus all you want, baby.”

Loki counts the pores.

The Grandmaster allows it.

                                                                  –

Later, Loki can remember everything, and he is  _mortified_. The Grandmaster laughs at him when Loki flinches, when Loki drags his fingers uncertainly and  _guiltily_  over the symmetrical, criss-crossing wounds and marks that cover the Grandmaster’s every inch of skin, when Loki is full of fear, waiting for the punishment, the discipline, that doesn’t come.

“Pill #34′s a no-go,” the Grandmaster purrs. “But it was… It was fun, seeing how it affected you. You made a nice rug.”

“I would have torn you to pieces if you’d let me, and left you labelled in a thousand jars,” Loki mutters. He remembers the urges, shoved aside every time…

“I wouldn’t have let you, baby,” the Grandmaster promises. Loki  _wishes_  he could believe it - if his attention had been turned on anybody else, Loki is certain the Grandmaster would have encouraged it, would have pushed him to settle into the manic fixation. “Did you– Did you like it?”

“I didn’t like anything, during. Didn’t feel anything. Just…  _Focus_.”

“No more pill #34,” the Grandmaster agrees, softly.

“No more pills?” The Grandmaster’s eyes harden slightly. “Just a question,” Loki says. “I don’t mean to be ungrateful.”

“Let’s– Uh huh. Uh huh. And look at this - you’ve left me all messed up.” Loki bites his lip, stares at the mess of the Grandmaster’s chest, at the bloody cuts and bites and  _burns_ , even… The Grandmaster ought have stopped him. He  _could_  have, if he wanted to - Loki is certain of that.

The guilt eats at him.  _Tears_  at him.

“Heal it,” Loki asks. “Please.”

“Kiss it better,” the Grandmaster whispers. “Kiss it better, and I, uh, and I will.” Loki doesn’t want to kiss the Grandmaster, not right now - he wants to hide in his quarters, stew in his bathwater, be  _alone_ … But this isn’t a bargain. This is an order.

Obediently, Loki puts his mouth to work. 

He hates himself with every pore that passes beneath his lips. 

**Author's Note:**

> [Hit me up](http://dictionarywrites.tumblr.com/faq). Requests always open.


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